


Latched On

by PumpkinPatch



Category: Lady and the Tramp (1955)
Genre: Oneshot, Post-Canon, Short, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 16:29:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18832366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PumpkinPatch/pseuds/PumpkinPatch
Summary: His mind went back to that scene, but trying to make a repeat performance of his own was harder than he expected.





	Latched On

He's been there awhile. Now the day is no longer as bright as it once was. In the passing time, no progress has been made. Again and again, with nose, foot, and back leg, he tries, but he simply cannot manage the feat.

Never one to quit, he tries once more, and only gets a rattle. 

The bolt never wiggles free, doesn't fly up. It's balanced in place. 

Buster's kicks don't work, he cannot rear up like he used to, his back aching in places. It's stupid after so many months his mind has circled back to this. 

To a single latch and how to undo it.

With a hard bump of his nose it rises, then drops back into place. His eyes narrow, his teeth grind, claws tear dirt from the fence's side as he fights not to bash it in with his shoulder.

He remembers the feeling, awe and surprise, shock and something else, the little flare in his chest. His anger was still burning at the moment, but it had fizzed in the sight of Tramp doing it, and in watching him leave. 

Hurt had replaced it, and later, physical pain. He'd pulled himself out of both, moved past them. A limp had become a walk, and then, a run. 

Now all he had left was to figure out how that mangy mutt did it, to learn another trick of The Tramp's trade.

The clouds blot out the sun in his eyes, burning more than the angry tears. His ears flap side to side, his claws dig deep furrows. The human who bolts this place is going to notice he's there. 

_Damn you._ He swipes upward, it rattles. _Damn you._

Another attempt, another failure. 

_Damn you!_

If his glare could melt the metal like human fire, it would, he feels only hate in his chest. His gut is churning with anger. 

“Ya think yer so cool. You think yer so better than me.”

With a hard pull back, he starts to slam his shoulder against the wood. It's firm, but yields a weakspot, and he smashes into it until a hole happens. Satisfied, he grabs wood in his jaws and begins to rip all he can away, shaking his head to fling it aside. 

The passage involves a bit of squeezing through, but he stands on the other side of the fence pleased.

It passes, in retrospect this whole endeavor was stupid. He's stupid. He _feels_ stupid! Anger and pain wash over Buster. He shakes it off, bottling it up with a laugh and moving to eye his damage. It's worth a glance, nothing more. 

“Who am I even impressing here?”

Not Tramp. Not himself. He lowers his eyes. _Nothing ever was good enough for him, it seems._

He turns his back on the latch as it catches the sunlight, not hesitating to give it another moment of his time. The trick's obviously something he can't learn in a day. 

So he'll be back later, maybe tomorrow.


End file.
